Writing Material
by renegadewriter8
Summary: Ratchet, aside from being an extraordinary medic, is also an accomplished writer, although he uses a pen name to publish his works. However, his latest novel is giving him trouble. Thankfully, two of his acquaintances provide the perfect inspiration. Written for the LJ tf-speedwriting community. Prompt: Sgriobhadaireachd


Written for the **tf_speedwriting** community.

**Prompt:** Sgriobhadaireachd

**Definition:** (n.) a writer's business.

* * *

Ratchet let his head fall with a 'thump' against the surface of his office desk. His was off duty for the moment and had wanted to work on his upcoming novel, which he had stupidly promised would be a romantic tale. He hated his publisher. Sideswipe had annoyed him so much, he'd finally said yes to his nagging. Sideswipe's twin brother, Sunstreaker (a famous artist), wanted his new _masterpiece_ to tell a romantic story and so, his dear brother had promised to get him inspiration. Which translated into tricking Ratchet into his current dilemma. If the brothers ever had cause to come to the clinic, he would send them straight to the morgue.

Logically, he should ask for advice or even a scenario to work with from his co-workers. Unfortunately, nobody knew that he was a writer when he wasn't busy throwing wrenches at his patients and, coincidentally, saving their lives (not by throwing wrenches, though sometimes it surprisingly helped). He had to keep everything hush hush and work on his free time, which as of late had been almost non-existent. The worst thing was that Sideswipe had given him a deadline, and it was rapidly approaching.

The medic was distracted from his cursing the red twin due to a disturbance in the corridor. Deciding that throwing a wrench or two would be a good stress reliever, he armed himself and left to see what all the fuss was about. Personally, he was betting on one of his patients making a run for it. Again. He didn't know why none of them was willing to stay a night or two for observation, specially when it was obvious something was wrong.

The sight that greeted him was not of a patient trying to slip past security and the nurses, but was still a familiar scene. Prowl, the security guard that seemed to put in more hours than the medics themselves, was once again fighting with one of the nurses, Jazz over the appropriate noise level of his music in the clinic. Said music was blaring loudly from a radio the visored nurse always brought with him.

Rolling his optics, Ratchet made sure to take good aim at the two oblivious idiots. Only to stop. He looked on at the scene from a writer's point of view: one strict, work-loving (to the point where several medics had subtly recommended a psychologist), oblivious yet obviously having feelings for the nurse, security guard, yelling at the good looking, cheeky, fun-loving and also oblivious yet equally love-struck nurse. Everyone knew the two did nothing but send mixed signals to the other, feigning either indifference, hostility or friendliness depending on their mood. Yet is was plain for all to see that they would love nothing more than to jump into each other's arms and be all lovey-dovey (okay, Prowl maybe not so much that last part). If there was something that irritated and frustrated the whole staff (and some of the more recurring patients) was these two, dancing around each other and causing mayhem with everyone's emotions. It did wonders on the nights the magnetic storms cut off all entertainment feeds though.

"Come on mech, live a little!" Jazz said huffing in annoyance from behind the nurse station.

"For the last time, this is a clinic and mechs are recuperating. The last thing they need or want is you blasting your damn music all over the place. Specially in the ER where mechs are not feeling at all well enough to deal with such a racket." Prowl replied, his calm demeanor starting to show cracks.

Throwing his arms in the air Jazz turned and clicked the radio off, returning to glare at the security officer. "There. Ya happy?"

"Ecstatic." Prowl deadpanned.

"Good fer ya!"

"Good for the patients."

"Yer such an aft, ya know that?"

"You are often reminding me. It's getting tedious."

"Yer getting tedious!"

"Stop shouting Jazz, mechs need their rest."

"Ah swear Ah just wanna stick a needle in yer optics!"

"That would be an improper use of medical supplies."

"Oh fer the love of-" Jazz stopped what he was going to say as he spotted Ratchet.

"Hey doc!" He called cheerfully, his fight with Prowl completely forgotten (and of course it was, they weren't actually fighting, merely having a conversation in their typical fashion). "Stop lurking in the shadows."

"Evening doctor." Prowl said formally, cool mask intact once again.

Ratchet was grinning, having recorded the entire thing. He had plenty to work with already. "Don't mind me fellas. Just came looking for some… material."

"Whatcha need? Syringes, welders…. wrenches?" Jazz laughed.

"No, I think I got what I wanted." He said still grinning, which was slightly scaring them both. Ratchet rarely smiled so… evilly.

"To what purpose did you require this… material?" Prowl asked warily.

Ratchet shrugged, turning back into his office.

"That's entirely sgriobhadaireachd." He called over his shoulders, leaving two very confused and worried mechs.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were going to be so happy. Hopefully, Jazz and Prowl would never know that the two characters of his upcoming novel under the pen name _Asclepius_ were based on them. Oh and he knew the two would read it, he'd often seen them with one of his novels, and both were quite happy with his work. They would without a doubt buy his next book. And with some luck it would make them realize how idiotic they were being and proclaim their love for each other once and for all. Ratchet would make sure to emphasize their obliviousness and throw in hints so they both realized how dim they were being.

Ratchet just hoped people bought the plot. If he hadn't seen it for himself, he would never believe such moronic individuals existed.

* * *

Like? =)


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